


Evermore

by Glare



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, And Everything That Goes With That, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: The dream has haunted Obi-Wan for as long as he can remember. Sands, suns, and a Beast with eyes that burn like fire.For Obikin Week '17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What's up kids. I'd, uh, hoped to have this whole fic done in time for Obikin Week, but that didn't happen due to extenuating real life circumstances up to and including: purchasing a vehicle, starting a full-time job, and moving 400 miles from home on… about a week’s notice, really. So yeah, it’s been wild. I’ve got about 10k words that I will try to expand upon during the week and put more chapters up. This fic is mostly for days 1: Mistake/Regret, 2: Second Chances, & 3: Confession.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

_The heat of Tatooine's twin suns is as oppressive as it was the day the Naboo Starskiff crashed in the bleak wasteland of the Tatooine desert. It beats mercilessly down upon him, singing anew the perpetually burnt skin on his nose and cheeks, the tips of his ears. Even after all this time, he has not been able to develop anything close to a tan; such is the curse of birth in a fair-weather climate._

_Resting in its sheath on his hip, the hide-bound hilt if his sword is an almost reassuring weight. Not quite, of course; it is not the hilt of his lightsaber, his weapon, his life. But the durasteel sword is as close as he's gotten to that weapon in a very, very long time. He longs to reach for the blade and pull it free, to eye the runes that run along the length of the blade. Symbols for protection, victory, a swift death, forged in dragon fire and glowing softly with the residual power left behind in their creation. Obi-Wan knows them as well as he knows himself, and takes comfort in their familiarity. The binders clasped around his wrists, keeping them pinned behind his back, prevent him from fulfilling that urge._

_At the lip of the sunken arena, in the carved stone stands, the witnesses of this spectacle make their voices knows. They chant and yell and scream, a cacophony that may have deafened lesser men. But Obi-Wan has stood before them a hundred times before; has been on the receiving end of their jaunts and cheers. It's easy to drown them out—to focus inward and prepare himself for the coming fight. For survival._

_Or at least, it used to be._

_There is none of that battle-calm now, watching from the Hutt’s private box as the gates slide open on either side of the arena. Instead his heart thunders treacherously in his ears as a figure steps into the ring from the far gate, drowning out the roar of the crowd and the Hutt’s cackling laughter. The figure appears so small in comparison to the vastness of the arena. Obi-Wan knows who this is, however, even from this distance. Knows those battered, brown robes and the magnetic pull of connection even before a green lightsaber springs to life in the figure’s hands. It makes watching the Gammorian Guard, with their axes and electro-pikes, poke and prod at a beast in the shadows of the cage to the figure’s opposite all the more the more horrible. Watching the creature in the shadows unfurl, larger and larger and larger, until you begin to wonder just how something so big fit into a cage so small._

_Something painful twists in Obi-Wan's chest as the beast emerges, as though some unseen opponent had driven their weapon through it. He knew this was coming, but that doesn’t make the moment any less horrifying. Doesn’t make the searing, agonizing pain in his chest any easier to handle. Not this. He would take anything, do anything, face anyone if it meant sparing himself from this moment._

_Oh please, please, Force, no—_

* * *

Obi-Wan starts awake with a ragged gasp, jerking upright, chest heaving, as his gaze flickers around him. He isn't in the strange arena now, however. The roar of the crowds has been replaced by the soft hum of the ship’s auxiliary generators. The heat that sticks his skin to his tunics is not from the planet’s twin suns, but the standard temperature of the climate-controlled engine room. He is not in the arena now.

The thought repeats itself inside of Obi-Wan’s head as he rises from his makeshift bed: little more than his travelling cloak laid out across the floor and his tabards wadded up in a rudimentary pillow. Any living quarters available aboard the ship are otherwise occupied by the Queen, her handmaidens, or the skiff’s crew. It doesn’t bother Obi-Wan, who has slept in worse places over the course of his apprenticeship under Qui-Gon Jinn. He is simply grateful for shelter from the elements.  

He's not in the arena now.

For as long as Obi-Wan can remember, the dream has plagued his sleeping hours. It disturbed his rest in the creche, sending him fleeing into the arms of his guardians with tales of dragons and duels and death as his heart tore itself apart inside his chest. They had taken him into their arms, comforted him, but Obi-Wan Kenobi was never known for a gift of precognition. _All dreams pass in time_ , they would say, stroking his hair until he calmed before sending him back to bed with his crechemates. There is only so many times one can hear it before the words begin to lose their meaning.

In his padawan years, the dreams wax and wane like tides. Sometimes days, months, will pass between their visitations. Other times he will wake, sweaty and panting, ears ringing with a phantom crowd's scream, every single night. He'd been frightened to approach Qui-Gon on the matter, fearing the same rejection from the Master he so loved, but the pressure of secrecy broke his will before long. As it turns out, _the future is always in motion_ is just as exhausting to hear as _all dreams pass in time_.

The future is always in motion, but the dream is a constant. It feels like a certainty, like a boulder in the center of a vast, raging river. The very stream of time parts around it, caving to the power of that moment. Obi-Wan had been too clumsy, too inexperienced in the ways of the Force, to understand it as a child. He is not a child anymore, however. He can feel the Force woven through every moment of his suffering. This will be his destiny, no matter what paths he chooses to tread.

The path he treads now is one leading out of the engine room, into the cooler halls of the ship and their sterile, white light. At this hour, there is hardly anyone left awake. The sandstorm that had driven them all inside had started only shortly before dusk, and Obi-Wan would estimate that it must be the middle of the night now.

His suspicions are confirmed as he walks the halls of the ship, no clear destination in mind, just to keep moving. Just to keep thoughts of the dream at bay. The only beings he passes over the course of his wanderings are a few mouse droids, encountered in the ship’s cargo hold. They’ve formed a small conversation circle, chattering to each other in their strange language. Obi-Wan does not have any particular attachment to droids, can not understand them, but he finds their antics quite amusing in this instance.

Apparently, he isn’t the only one. Soft, melodic laughter sounds from just behind him, startling the padawan. He must truly be out of sorts to have not noticed another’s approach. Fortunately the presence is neither hostile nor particularly dangerous, in this instance. Just one of the Queen’s handmaidens, smiling fondly down at the droids over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan does not know her name, but the shade of her eyes is just so subtly darker than those of the Queen’s, allowing Obi-Wan to identify her as her own person instead of just _the Queen’s handmaidens._

“One of them has just spoken with the ship,” she confides, “and it seems to be quite unhappy about the sandstorm earlier. They’re glad to be indoors; they don’t think their circuits would hold up well out there.”

“You speak binary?” Obi-Wan asks, stepping aside to allow her more fully into the small cargo bay.

A faint flush rises to her cheeks, and she sheepishly admits, “I have a fondness for mechanics. It’s easier to get to the root of a problem when you can speak to them.”

“I’d imagine there’s not much mechanical work to be done, when you’re accompanying the Queen.” The purpose of the handmaidens is to be indistinguishable, to hide the Queen from dangers and prying eyes. Individuality does no one favors when your goal is to be identical.

Her smile falters slightly at his comment. “No, not really. In our off hours though, when the Queen is on planet and our presence is not required, we are permitted to pursue our own interests.”

“Is that what has you up in the middle of the night?”

“I read that this planet has three moons,” she says, “just like home. Now that the sandstorm has died down, I want to see whether they shine as brightly as our own.”

Her statement is innocuous, innocent, but it scratches at something in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind. Something that reminds him of the weight pressing down and the dream he’d almost forgotten about over the course of their conversation. “You’re not intending to go outside, are you?”

She smiles at him, a wry thing thrown over her shoulder as she makes her way toward the cargo ramp’s controls. “Where else would I see the sky? The pilots are asleep in the cockpit, and I don’t want to disturb them.”

“It’s dangerous to go out at night!” Obi-Wan protests.

“So come with me, Master Jedi,” she replies, pressing a button and lowering the ramp. “I’m sure with your skill, you can keep me safe.”

In the end, Obi-Wan does not learn whether or not Tatooine’s moons shine as brightly as those orbiting Naboo. With the Force clamoring in his ears, he does not notice the Raiders coming until it is far too late to stop them. Until they have the handmaiden, a dusty, scavenged blaster pressed to her skull. Until he has no other option but to drop his lightsaber—his weapon, his life—to the sand in surrender. This is not what he saw in his dreams, but the padawan knows somewhere in his gut that this is where the nightmare begins.

Then, with the swing of another Raider’s gaffa stick, Obi-Wan knows no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is only 11:30 as I post this, so it is--technically--still Obikin week. Sliding in just under the wire.  
> Anyhoo, chapter two! I like this one better than the first one.

When Obi-Wan wakes, the Naboo starkiff is nowhere to be seen. In fact, when Obi-Wan wakes, there is _nothing_ to be seen. No stars, no sky, no sands. Just four stone walls, a low roof, and a solid durasteel door on the far side of whatever room he’s found himself in. The space is lit faintly by a set of small windows on the rear wall, but they’re placed too high for Obi-Wan to get a look out of them even if he’d wanted to.

His head aches tremendously, and blood has dried in the back of his hair when he prods at the source of his pain. The Raider had hit him quite hard; he’s likely got at least a mild concussion, if not anything more severe. That does appear to be his only injury, however, when he takes a brief moment to look himself over. Obviously their intention had been to capture and not kill, or the padawan would be long dead. Which begs the question: what did they need him alive for?

Seeking the answer to his questions, Obi-Wan attempts to reach out with the Force, knowing that this will aid him in centering himself and provide more information than whatever small view the windows may have been able to show him. When he reaches out, however, there is nothing to grasp. The Force doesn’t just slips through his fingers—he can not touch it at all. It feels as though someone has built up a wall around his mind, preventing him from connecting with the flow of the Force.

Obi-Wan knows what this is, having experienced the sensation before. His hands fly up to his throat, and his fingers dance along the slim band they find there. A Force suppressor; somehow he’d missed it when he’d given himself a once-over earlier. Then again, he was looking for physical injury, and not the psychic. This one appears to be either very cheap or very old, judging by the battered, worn feel to the band. Even so, it is effective in keeping Obi-Wan from touching the Force.

“They put it on you when we got here,” a voice says, and the padawan prides himself on not jumping this time. This time, he recognizes the speaker even before he turns around.

The handmaiden from the cargo hold is seated in one of the rear corners on the dusty floor. She has her knees curled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. The robes she’d been wearing the night before are battered now, and she’s sporting a blackened eye along with a split lip. Obi-Wan almost feels lucky he was unconscious; he would have put up a fight otherwise, and likely ended up in the same position as her.

“And where is here?” He asks, tugging halfheartedly at the collar. The lock, expectedly, hold firms.

The handmaiden shrugs. “The Raiders—they rounded everyone up and brought us to some… palace… in the desert. We rode for most of the day, but I do not know which way this planet’s suns move, so I can’t tell you what direction we went in.”

“They took everyone?” Obi-Wan asks, and at the handmaiden’s confirming nod, drops to the sand with a curse. “That means they have the Queen.”

“Not the true Queen,” the handmaiden says, almost offhandedly, and Obi-Wan narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The girl in the Queen’s clothing was just another decoy,” she confesses. “The real Queen Amidala went with your Master to the spaceport; we thought it best to hide her amongst her own retinue, with how quickly things were escalating with the Trade Federation. They still hadn’t returned when the Raiders took us.”

Obi-Wan scrubs a tired hand over his face as he processes this new information. It makes a certain amount of sense to hide the Queen among her not-quite twins, the addition of the decoy’s bold clothing providing adequate distraction from the unassuming handmaidens that hover around her. “So there’s still a chance to save your people,” he sighs, mostly to himself. It’s a small weight off his chest to know that his Master is safe from whatever hardships Obi-Wan faces in the future. “You said they took everyone; where are the others? Were they brought here with us?”

The handmaiden nods. “We were all here. The guards have been coming and taking us, however, a few at a time. I’m not sure where to, but we’re the last ones left. I have a feeling they’ll come for us, too.”

As if her words have summoned their captors, the click of a lock opening suddenly echoes through the small cell. Obi-Wan attempts to jump to his feet, to meet their captors head-on, but the world spins dangerously around him at the sudden movement. His concussion is definitely more severe than he thought, and without the Force to speed his healing, he will be all but helpless until his body mends the wound on its own. There’s no way he can defend himself like this, let alone the sole handmaiden left under his questionable protection.

The door steps open, revealing a pair of pig-like aliens and a tall, boney Twi’lek male. The two guards, _Gammorians_ something in Obi-Wan mind supplies, are covered from head to toe in heavy armor and thick furs—strange attire for desert-dwellers—and wield large axes that would be much less threatening if Obi-Wan had access to his lightsaber or the Force. The Twi’lek is an ugly thing, with sunken, pale orange skin and rotting teeth. One of his lekku is wrapped around his neck like a particularly fleshy scarf while the other hangs down limply along the line of his back.

He leers at Obi-Wan as he approaches, taking in the downed padawan with an appreciative eye. The guards follow him, shifting their weapons to one hand and reaching for Kenobi when he tries to scramble away. Each grabs one arm, dragging him up to his knees and holding him there despite his protests and ineffectual struggles. They really are quite strong.

Taking his jaw in a tight grip, the Twi’lek forces Obi-Wan’s face into the light, turning it this way and that as his eyes trace over his face, the line of his jaw. He squeezes at the muscles in Obi-Wan’s arms, pulls up his tunic to get a look at his torso. Inspecting him the way one might expect produce at the market, or livestock at auction. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what the Twi’lek is looking for—what list he’s comparing the padawan to—but there’s something like satisfaction in the curl of his lip. It sends a chill down the boy’s spine.

Obi-Wan is familiar with a great many languages spoken within the Core, it is a requirement of his Jedi training, but he does not recognize the words that fall from the Twi’lek’s lips when he poses a question to the Gammorians. The syllables are harsh and grating, spoken rapidly, with only the words _Jedi_ distinguishable along them. The guards respond in a snorting, squealing tongue that is also foreign to the padawan, but doesn’t seem to hinder the Twi’lek.

The back and forth continues for some time, and Obi-Wan has been involved in enough negotiations to recognize bartering when he sees it, even with the language barrier. For a moment he wonders what they’re bartering over, before the Twi’lek nods absently in his direction as he speaks. It occurs to him then, with a suddenness that freezes his heart in his chest and makes him feel far more stupid than he actually is, that they are bartering over _him_.

While slavery is technically illegal in the Republic, Obi-Wan is not foolish enough to believe that the business of dealing in human lives ceased the moment the bill was passed. He’s been to planets where the trade still flourished—where the people lived in chains. In the Outer Rim, especially on Hutt-controlled planets like this one, it is merely considered the way of life.

It had never once crossed his mind that one day, he might find himself in the same situation as those people he once went to aid.

The three must come to some kind of arrangement, because their conversation has finally ceased and the guards begin to pull Obi-Wan towards the door. He struggles against their hold, but it’s a fruitless effort. Behind him, the last handmaiden makes a distressed noise, drawing his attention away from fighting his inevitable future. She’s clearly terrified to be left alone, wide-eyed and shaking, and he searches desperately for something, anything to say that might offer some small comfort.

“Master Jinn will find us,” he shouts as he’s dragged from the cell. “Be strong! Master Jinn will find us!”

It’s not much, but in this moment, wounded and unarmed and cut off from the Force, it is all that he can offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, i'm terribly sorry for not getting more of this out this week. We hired a new kid at work who only shows up when he feels like it, and I've had to go in and cover all his shifts this week. Not complaining because overtime, but still. Here's to hoping they just fire his ass.


End file.
